“Yes,” I replied, “I believe he has—paymaster of invalids, somewhere or other. But now, Chattermohun, my good fellow, make yourself scarce, if you please, for I’ve a plaguy deal to attend to, and must be very busy.” Chattermohun raised his hand, enveloped in its snowy, muslin drapery, slowly to his forehead, and made me a profound salaam, but stirred not—there was evidently something in the background. At last, out it plumped. “Will master please to _ishpik_ in my favour?” “To whom? for what? what the d——l do I know of you, Chattermohun?” “Captain Belfil, I learn by proper intelligence, have need of ’spectable writer. I won’t go back old army bis’ness, Calcutta—bis’ness not make too much pecuniary profit—therefore, master please to give me recommendation, I shall, _plis_ God, get that place.” “Oh, oh!” said I, “Mr. Chattermohun; and this is the object of your visit to me, eh!—of your everlasting gratitude, and my newly-dubbed paternity?” “No, sair, ’pon my honour, not for that only, but master I think have great benevolence to do me favour.” I liked Chattermohun; those who cannot carry it by storm, must try it by sap; so I promised to certify on paper all that I knew in his favour, and a little more. To my surprise, it produced the desired effect. Chattermohun got the _writership_, joined the fleet, and became our _comapagnon de voyage_. They say there is no word for _gratitude_ in the native language, and consequently that the quality is unknown; certainly, Chattermohun was grateful to me, poor fellow, for the service rendered him, as far as was in his power to be so. Gratitude is certainly more easily professed than felt amongst black and white; but to deny that it can exist, is to libel human nature. Capt. Belfield and his sister gave me a most kind and friendly reception; as an agreeable earnest of the pleasure of the voyage, breakfast was on the table when I entered the budgerow, Miss Belfield presiding over its arrangements with English neatness and propriety, just as she had been accustomed to do, no doubt, for many a happy year, at Long Somerton. The windows or venetians were up on both sides, affording an agreeable view of the river and its banks; under one, there was a grand scene of bathing, praying, and filling of water-pots. Many a dark eye of a Hindoo girl stole furtive glances at the strange meal and paraphernalia of the terrific European, while the sharp aspirations from the lungs of numerous _dhobees_, or washermen, banging their clothes, sounded along the shore. The _dandies_, or boatmen, now drew on board the _seree_, or plank connecting us with the shore, threw water over the figure-head, touched their foreheads, shouted “_Gunga gee ke jy!_”—“Success, or victory to the holy Ganges”—leaped on board, and our whole fleet was soon under weigh: beginning act the third of my griffinage.